DEAR SUGAR, The Rumpus Advice Column #98: Monsters and Ghosts

My mother left my father the month I was born. She remarried and had my brother two years later. My stepfather (the only father I knew) committed suicide when I was five years old. My mother became a raging alcoholic following his death. She didn’t physically or sexually abuse me, but was really good with manipulation and humiliation. She led me to believe it was my fault my step father had killed himself because I was gay, etc.

As a child I was the man of the house, and when I was 13 I staged an intervention for my mom (though I didn’t know there was a name for it until much later). She went away for the weekend, and when she returned, she didn’t drink anymore. We were never allowed to ask or talk about this, or any of the other family “secrets” (like my step father’s death). My mom was a difficult person to love, a dry drunk capable of being terribly awful and mean. She was also incredibly intelligent and could be very loving and sweet.

Thirteen years later my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer, and picked up the bottle again. I was her caretaker, and witnessed her decline into alcoholism, until I couldn’t take it anymore. In order to protect myself (and get sober myself) I left my life, my home, my mother, my partner and our cats and my career. I packed a backpack and got on a bus.

“Sugar Says” poster

My mother and I had no direct contact for the next three years. We tried to meet once (with professional guidance) for a therapy session, but the stress caused her to go on a bender which led to another long stay in the psych ward. After years of extreme suffering, my mother died three months ago from alcoholism and cancer. I was with her for the last two days of her life. I held her hand and told her it was okay to go and that I loved her.

I have spent the past three years rebuilding my life: I am now sober, have a career-track job, a home, and a new partner. I should be great, but I can’t seem to escape the past and the memories. I constantly doubt my past actions. I feel guilty that I should have stuck with my mom or tried to reconcile with her sooner than I did. I am haunted by the legacy of alcoholism and mental illness and secrecy. As a result, I’m incredibly shy and insecure. I feel lonely, abandoned and damaged. I have a therapist, participate in AA and Al-Anon, and am often a meditation and Buddhist practioner. These things all help a bit, but I fear I will never be able to move past these experiences and have the happy “normal” life I deserve. I know I may never be able to “get over” these things, but what else can I do to feel better about myself, Sugar? Why do all the bad memories overwhelm the good ones? How can I let go?

Sincerely, A Man’s Home Can’t Be His Castle If He’s Living In A Haunted House

***

Dear Haunted,

When I was eleven, my brother and sister and I went to visit our father. We traveled to the place he lived a thousand miles away from us and spent a week with him and his wife and one-year-old baby. We hadn’t seen him in five years. One afternoon my father made popcorn and told me I could have as much butter as I wanted on it. “More,” I kept saying as he poured the melted butter over the popcorn in my very own gigantic bowl. “More,” I persisted until the entire pile of it deflated like a popped balloon under the weight of all that liquid. I don’t know what posessed me. I couldn’t bring myself to stop saying more until it was ruined. In the end, there was nothing to do but throw the entire sodden mess in the trash.

I’ve thought about that for years. It’s one of those memories that haunts me. It makes me sadder than a lot of the actually sad memories of my father do. I think it’s because when we ruined that popcorn we were both trying so hard. He was, for once, trying to give me everything I wanted and I was trying to get everything I needed and it was way too late for either one.

There would never be enough butter for me in my father’s house. I had to find it elsewhere in the world. Just like you.

You are a fucking amazing person, Haunted, so strong and brave. In spite of every reason not to, you’ve spent your life relentlessly reaching toward the light. You’ve done everything that any therapist, true friend, or half-cracked advice columnist would implore you to do. You set healthy boundaries with your mother even though you had to teach yourself what they were. You faced your own addiction and co-dependency issues and joined a community that supported you in your recovery. You accepted your mother for who she was and forgave her for things many would consider unforgivable. You went to therapy in search of deeper understanding, pursued positive personal paths both professionally and romantically, and developed mental and spiritual practices that no doubt deepen and nurture each of those things.

You have done so damn well, sweet pea. You’ve reached the master level of healing thyself. And yet, here you are. Still you. Haunted and insecure, lonely and wounded, unable to “move past these experiences.” What the hell can you do?

I think the first thing is to recognize how much you have, in fact, moved past these experiences, even though you claim you haven’t. You would not be sober if you hadn’t moved past them. You wouldn’t have been such an astoundingly loving son to your mother if you hadn’t. You likely wouldn’t even have been capable of writing me a letter. While it’s true you’re haunted by your past, it’s truer that you’ve traveled spectacularly far away from it. You swam across a wide and wild sea and you made it all the way to the other side. That it feels different here on this shore than you thought it would does not negate the enormity of the distance you traversed and the strength it took you to do it.

It’s no wonder you thought you’d feel that other, purer way. That reel is playing in a lot of our heads, planted there by a jumble of sources, both mercenary and benevolent, none of which are very much help. We want to believe that on the other side of whatever crap we had to swim away from there’s a crap-free beach where we can lounge in the sun at last. Free and at peace. If anyone deserves that liberation, it’s you, honey bun.

But we can’t erase our lives. We can’t change what our mothers or fathers or step parents were like or what demons or gods ruled them or when they died or how. We can only change who we are in relation to them. We can revise how we narrate those stories of our lives.

A few years ago I lost my temper with my kids and in my anger I told them that they were lucky I was their mom. I yelled that if when I was their age I’d behaved the way they were behaving, my father would have hit me with a belt. They went silent and looked at me. They were so young. They’d never heard about anyone being hit by a belt. The moment after I said what I did I wished I could unsay it, but I couldn’t. So then I apologized and told them a bit about my why I’d been afraid of my father when I was a kid.

They laughed. They actually believed I was joking. Even upon further explanation, they refused to accept what I was telling them was true. It could not be true. They knew how grown ups behaved and it was not the way I described to them—“like monsters and ghosts”—my son said. Like monsters and ghosts.

I had to sit down. It was like after all those years of moving on and processing and letting go and forgiving and coming to peace with and not even giving a shit about it anymore disappeared and everything I ever had to feel or understand or release about who my father was to me was right there and finally decipherable, thanks to the unadulterated and perfectly reasonable perception of my two children, who had such a perception because they’d never in all of their lives encountered a grown up who’d hurt them. Because of this they could concisely and without reservation scoop the last remaining maybe-I-really-am-to-blame bullshit out of my innards and set it on the table so it wouldn’t any longer live inside of me.

My children gave me a new story to tell myself. Not that my father is a monster or a ghost—he’s neither—but that, like your mom, some of things he did don’t make sense. And they never have to. Those things might as well have been done by some fantastical figure in a scary story that has nothing to do with you or me. We can let it sit like that. We can put it in its proper place.

There is so much about your story that hurts. So many things that shouldn’t have been said or done. Reading your letter feels a bit like being punched in the face. But there is one part that’s different than the rest. It’s this: I was with her for the last two days of her life. I held her hand and told her it was okay to go and that I loved her.

Every time I read those sentences it’s like a horse came up and nuzzled an apple from the palm of my hand. Like the world was all tipped over and the next instant everything was right again. I don’t know precisely how you find your way to the “happy ‘normal’ life you deserve,” but I know you will find it by remembering that in those two days you managed to be the man you aspire to be when it mattered most. Which is the only thing that actually matters at all. You weren’t haunted in those two days. You were flooded with light. You accepted your life for what it was. You allowed it all to be okay. You held love in your heart when others would’ve opted for rage.

You’ll never be someone who had a mother who didn’t fuck with him. You’ll always be a person who had to escape from a crap pile to make his whole amazing self up. There’s a lot of sorrow and ugliness in that. But there’s a lot of beauty too.

That’s how we find our way outward and onward. By holding onto beauty hardest. By cradling it like the cure that it is. By making it realer than anything ever was. The rest is just monsters and ghosts.

Hit the Sugar spot: sugar@therumpus.net or, if you prefer to keep your question 100% anonymous, use my form by clicking the button below. Either way, by submitting a question you are agreeing to our terms statement.

For the first 15 years of my life I lived a life no child should but far too many do. For the next 15 years of my life I pretended none of it had ever happened and that I was a happy, whole, normal person. It almost worked. It worked very well for most of that time, so well people told me constantly that they wished they were as strong, as capable, as warm as I.

But then it all crashed, and badly. A long flirtation with alcoholism (turns out no matter how much I drink, I can’t lose myself in a bottle)and it’s attendants (debt, lost jobs, burned bridges) and I woke up and said, “Okay hon, who are you really?”

I spent the next three years doing what I called “sitting on the stoop” – I watched my life and the life of others go by while I learned who I was, how to authentically feel, react, live.

These last ten years of my life I have been living the life I always dreamed I would. But there are still dark days, still holes, still days when I know I’m not whole. I accept that I’m not truly whole – that this wounded child will live inside of me forever and that she is sad, and frightened and most of all angry, and that consquentely she sometimes acts out. I have accepted that and her and live my mostly happy life but sometimes wonder if I’ll ever be okay.

And the last two paragraphs of your letter to “Haunted” have laid a soothing balm on that little girl’s hurts in a way that seven years of therapy and ten years of good, true love have not. Who knows – with time, your words may heal us both.

This line resonates the most for me : “That it feels different here on this shore than you thought it would does not negate the enormity of the distance you traversed and the strength it took you to do it.”

As a nonfiction writer, your columns always make me want to turn around and write. And think and feel and comfort others. Thanks for spreading whatever your magic is out into the ether. I’m reaching out and grabbing some.

I woke up today haunted by the events of 2010. My Mom was diagnosed with cancer and it was 18 total months of surgeries and treatments. My Dad did an honorable job as caretaker (I live 100 miles away). The issues that keep haunting me is during my Mom’s treatment she turned into a person I did not even know. There were some rough patches there to where she wanted her own apartment etc. Each person goes through a medical trauma differently. Each family goes through it differently. I did not even realize until I read this post that I am haunted by those 2010 memories and it’s going to be in the back of my mind no matter how good things get (again) for my family.

Sugar, your ability to show compassion without pity to people like Haunted (and myself) who have been a little kicked around but not defeated by life is without equal. You amaze me, every time. I wish there were a thousand you’s to help all of us who need it – but you would still always be the sweetest Sugar ever. Thank you for your wisdom and kindness.

I also stopped at “I was with her for the last two days of her life. I held her hand and told her it was okay to go and that I loved her.” There are so many ways for people to die, and honestly, I don’t get the sense that any of them are particularly encouraging, but to lovingly accompany someone as far as one can to death’s door, that’s such a huge huge act of love and kindness. Bless you, Haunted, bless you.

Not a Sugar column goes by that I’m not in tears, including this one. Oh it is so true– there are no crap-free beaches to swim to. But making a decision to “hold onto beauty the hardest” is so freeing. Beautiful advice. Thank you Sugar.

And Haunted, Sugar is right; you ARE amazing!!
Look at all of the things you were able to do for yourself and for your mother, before they even had TV shows on A&E about addiction!
For a long time, I spent years carrying my baggage full of injury and shame, almost like vintage luggage, so old, and so ancient and worn these memories were. But you are Buddhist, and meditate. Me too. Meditation is about being in the present moment. If you at your present moment, it is SPECTACULAR !! You are sober, you have a new life, a new partner. You did the absolute best for your mother that you could, while you could. Being a “good son”doesn’t mean letting someone you love hold on to your oar until your boat is dragged under by the tides. It means loving yourself do that you are able to be present for those you love. Do you think a son who hasn’t been sober would have been able to give your mother such a beautiful goodbye? Your mind will bring these old memories up from time to time for your perusal. Tell them to fuck off, as often as necessary, and return to the present moment. You are an amazing man, who did incredible things with impossible circumstances. When they come up, you tell those ghosts THAT.

To Haunted, I would also suggest you look into Adult Children of Alcoholics (ACA) because it highlights the impact of family alcoholism in a way that Al-Anon does not. I’ve learned so much from both programs, and I believe some of your old wounds may be addressed through ACA. http://www.adultchildren.org

I don’t think the ghosts and darkness and monsters ever really go away,
but they can be drowned out by joy a lot of the time, and beauty,
and their volume can be turned down.

Writing like a motherfucker seems to be one of the most powerful weapons for battling
ghosts and monsters. Going deeper into the truth of all of it often leads to unexpected
paths through it and out of it…

thank you once again for your down and dirty wisdom
and life saving empathy

A more timely post has never been written. I just started therapy this week to sort through some of my own “haunted memories” of my relationship with my father, who died suddenly eight years ago. It will be a painful and arduous journey, to be sure. But I will be clinging to beauty throughout it.

A couple of months back, I confided in my husband that I was so proud (so proud!) of the progress I’d made with my fear of judgment. I’d come so far, and my life was measurably better as a result. Later that evening, I was arguing with a (drunk) friend who was talking over me and dismissing all my statements. I ended up slapping her hand away from me and shrieking that she needed to stop ****ing talking over me. The next day, I broke down in his arms, convinced that I was broken, would always be broken, would never overcome all my issues. I just gotten a handle on a phobia only to turn into this rageful monster. And he said something true and incredibly maddening,

“We’re all broken. That’s what it means to be human.”

I love that statement and I hate it. I still want that imaginary perfect life where I’ve dealt with all my crap, and I’m a fully functional human free of neuroses. But wanting that fantasy keeps me from celebrating my successes and loving myself the way I am right now. It’s another trap, another burden. I’ve got enough of those already, and it sounds like you have more than enough, Haunted.

You’ll probably always feel socially awkward. Some of my most charming friends have confessed to being almost crippled with fear of saying the wrong thing or of speaking to strangers; I never guessed until they told me. You’ll always remember what it was to not be sober and the comfort of it. That, in and of itself, is no reason to think that you won’t stay sober for the rest of your life. The memories and the questions will almost certainly keep cropping up. Thoughts are uncontrollable, but they are only thoughts. They are only thoughts.

Those thoughts may never leave, but you don’t have to give them power. Imagine shelving them in the archives in your head, way in back behind all the things that you love and all the things that you need. Keep shelving them like all librarians do. Books get pulled off shelves in libraries constantly, and the librarians always put them back.

You keep doing like you’re doing, because you’re doing so many of the right things. And you will keep getting better, whether step by infinitesimal step or in a sudden forward leap. You’ll never be perfect, but you will be better.

Remember that you did the best you could. Yes, really. You want so badly to be a loving and kind person – all the time you spent taking care of your mother over all those years attests to that fact. If it had been possible for you to reconcile sooner or try harder or love better, you would have. The fact that you didn’t means that at that time and in that place, there was no “better” that was possible.

You did something I can hardly imagine, forgiving your mother of all that and making her dying easier, whether she deserved it or not. Sugar’s right, that is a beautiful thing to be treasured. You’re already doing so well in some ways, so much better than normal. Let go of “normal,” let go of “perfect,” and be the beautiful person you are. Love the beautiful person that you are.

Haunted, it’s been only three months since your mom died. You are grieving, dear one, not just for the mom you knew and who was suffering, but for the mother you didn’t have. When your mother died, so did the hope that you might someday have the kind of mother-child relationship that you deserved but that was not to be. It seems that you have had a lot of grief, and for that I am so sorry. But you’ve also grown in grace and have kept moving forward.

Over time, somehow, grief gives way to healing and restoration. Give yourself time. While you will never have the mother you wanted, you did learn to love and nourish yourself and that still remains. Keep on. You’re on the way.

Thank you for being in the world and writing darling sugar. Love you. You said it:

That’s how we find our way outward and onward. By holding onto beauty hardest. By cradling it like the cure that it is. By making it realer than anything ever was. The rest is just monsters and ghosts.

Today, when I learned that a new column was coming, I found that I was not looking forward to it the way I used to. Now that Sugar has a name and a face, now that I have read one of her books, now that she has been on tour and on the bestseller list and all of those things that are so well-deserved and make me so happy for her, a small part of me I actually worried that she would be changed in some fundamental way.

Why I thought any such thing seems absurd to me now that I have read this (3 times in a row). Of course Sugar is Sugar. This is achingly beautiful, as always, and oozing with the honesty and compassion that move me so deeply every time I read her column. I am so grateful there are people like this in the world.

Haunted’s mother died with her son by her side, non-judgmentally helping her leave her world of extreme suffering. Sugar, you are so right when you say that Haunted was the kind of man he aspires to be when it MATTERED the most. That has such power that it should go a long way in kicking aside the bad memories until they are so far in the distance, they can’t hamper the way forward anymore.

I saw the name Sugar in my inbox this morning and was so excited. Welcome back. In your email you said the pressure to write to your Sugarites’ (Sugarettes? Maybe just readers) expectations was making you wonder if you could still be Sugar.
Sweet pea, you just needed to get back on the horse, and stay up very late and the result is sugar gold.
Thank you for understanding, having genuine empathy for, and helping the haunteds of the world.

My Mom was tough. But what I have realized now that I am 56. I know different things than my daughters at 29 and 30. But it’s hard, no matter what age. I am at the terrible 56s. Where’s that book? Every age has it’s questions. And will never stop. Hoping.

I loved reading the anecdote about your kids literally not believing an adult could treat a child like that. Your dad sounds like mine, and it made me cry to hear your kids didn’t believe it. Its so hard not blame yourself for how your parents treated you, however unconsciously. I’m still in my (late) 20s, so I’m only really just starting to deal with it myself. My partner and I are planning on kids in a couple years and I just keep thinking I’ll feel like I’ve reversed the trend as long as my kids know that I love them unconditionally and would never hurt them. I just wanted to say thanks for sharing – it means a lot to hear someone else had a similar experience.

I love that Sugar supported all the amazing steps you’ve taken and the hard work you’ve done. But I also know the aching feeling that you’re still not where you want to be, despite all that hard work. Wondering if you’re permanently broken in a way that just can’t be fully repaired. I know this feeling in myself, and as a therapist, I hear it all the time from from my patients. Even- no, especially- from the ones like you, who have somehow made the most of every resource and support and strength. I can’t promise you that things will get better, but I can say that for many people, 3 years is still short-term (ack!). I’m amazed at what you’ve done in that time. But if you keep working to accept all the parts of yourself that you perceive as ugly, broken and misshapen, cut yourself some slack for your “mistakes” and keep trying to love yourself as much as you can, there is a very good chance you’ll get there. Not tomorrow, and not all at once, but slowly, piece by piece. Keep your letter and these responses and look back at them in a year- I bet you’ll be even farther on your journey to feeling whole than you thought you’d be. Don’t give up.

Holy shit, lady – you’re amazing. Truly amazing. Last night I was wondering if you were pounding this out into the wee hours of the morning, wondering how you manage to produce such beauty. Thank you thank you thank you. And thank you also to “Haunted.” Your strength gives me strength. Sending blessings your way. May all beings everywhere be happy.

I always like it when people tell me the specific part of my writing that spoke to them, so I like to do the same. I know you put so much into these pieces that every sentence is thoughtfully written. These are the ones that spoke to me.

“He was, for once, trying to give me everything I wanted and I was trying to get everything I needed and it was way too late for either one.”

and…

“…I know you will find it by remembering that in those two days you managed to be the man you aspire to be when it mattered most. Which is the only thing that actually matters at all.”

Haunted- YES, to everything sugar sai, especially about your strength and boundaries and the beauty of the live you ARE living. AND, I also think there is a lot to be said for some of the incredibly simple techniques available for breaking unhealthy thought patterns. Have you ever tried “tapping” or NLP?

I wonder if part of the sadness we feel when a loved one has failed us and dies, is that they themselves were so unhappy. They never got happy, like we still have the time and opportunity to do. It’s that syndrome of being a survivor in a disaster where others die. We think we failed them. The main thing that overshadows all the regret and remorse and makes it easier to bear, even forget about is, it ain’t over. We go on and on, the universe is infinite. This is a difficult concept, but just try it, see how it makes you feel.

Hi Sugar, and Haunted, and Kathy (comment above mine :-),
I’ll try on Kathy’s concept and see how it makes me feel, that the universe is infinite and it ain’t over. I do consider that idea. We all have so much in common! We appreciate the eloquent compassion and understanding that Sugar offers. My story is so much like Haunted’s and other letter-writers, and a lot of commenters, I’m sure. The part of the infinite-universe idea that is most striking to me is that I wonder what percentage of Earth’s population we represent?
For me, it could be that to abandon a search for self-acceptance and enlightenment about Life’s purpose would be the most fruitful route to follow from now on. Really, while I am continuously concerned about the upper level of Maslow’s Heirarchy of human motivation, 95% of Earth’s population are concerned with their immediate safety and physiological needs. I am going to try to grow enough rice to feed a village from here on out; my life doesn’t need more meaning than that, now I am safe and fed.

Haunted, I think you’re talking about forgiveness. I have been where you are.

Sugar did everything for you except give this name to your hauntedness. I’m sure that you did the best you could at the time with the life experience you had. And you did very well by delineating your boundaries and doing your own inner work. You did what you had to do to grow. That enabled you to be there for your mom at her life’s greatest moment of change, with solace and forgiveness and love for her.

Now you must extend that same solace and forgiveness and love to your younger self, the one who didn’t yet have the tools to deal with the mess. Speak kindly to that young man and forgive the things he could not do or say. Forgive the things he did or said that you’d rather were different.

When my mother died, I thought I would be free, swimming & diving boldly through my life. But as Sugar says, this shore isn’t quite what I expected. Your life and your experiences are with you forever. But you can look at yourself and know that you made it, you made it, you finally made it to the other side.

I don’t understand what forgiveness is, what it entails. It’s like what Sugar is talking about when other people are telling you how to deal with your grief. I don’t know how to tell someone how to do that or that they need to forgive when I don’t know what they are feeling, and never can, and I don’t find other people telling me to forgive to be very helpful. Is that only because I can’t forgive, or chose not to? I don’t know.

Dear Haunted,
I spent the first 1 1/2 years following the deaths of my father and mother not wanting to participate in one of those “grief groups” where, I assumed, everyone sat around in a circle to cry.
But recently I went to a Grief Recovery class (12 weeks) which teaches specific methods on how to come to some kind of resolution about whatever grief you are having (death, divorce, etc.). Mine was free, through a community center. These workshops are often offered by a funeral home or other organization where they are free. Sometimes there is a stipend-fee.
Anyway, http://www.grief.net/ is one of the websites, and the experience helps you look at the big picture on where you’ve been, what kinds of pain experiences you had in the past, and how they affected you. There are also exercises in accepting all of it and moving forward.
The exercises are somewhat painful but doable. Here is the book:http://www.amazon.com/Recovery-Handbook-Anniversary-Expanded-Edition/dp/0061686077/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1337386029&sr=8-1
When I was growing up, I was the favored child. After my parents’ deaths (in rapid succession when they were elderly and in which I particpated and my brother did not), I lost not only my parents but also my brother, because our relationship, such as it was, ended. During the Grief Recovery process (where they are no therapists and no therapy, just exercises where you write and think and write and talk), I was finally able to look at what awful parents they had been to my brother! He never should have felt pushed out like he was! He might have participated more in their needs during old age if they hadn’t subtly made him feel so worthless when they were vigorous! As awful as he was to me, considering what he had gone through, he was fairly generous toward them.
Explore the Grief Recovery process. Apparently, around a third or more of the people who sign up to do it quit before the process is over — it is pretty intense! But if you do undergo it, it’s liberating. Good luck — you’ve already demonstrated that you’re stronger and more “full” than you think you are.

what doesn’t kill you cripples you. you just sort of hobble along, handicapped but hopefully with some compassion toward fellow cripples. hopefully those experiences don’t turn a person into an asshole. i gave up looking to be whole a long time ago. it’s just not that important. the most interesting people i know have some of the more unfortunate upbringings.

i used to think i’d like to move in with that nice young family down the street, where the dad gets down at his little girl’s level, on his heels, and catches her at the end of her ride down the slip-n-slide. but now i think it was more important for me to me playing in my backyard sandbox alone, scooping cat shit out of the sand with my slotted spoon.

I loved that he was with his mother holding her hand when she died. How beautiful for her and how hard for him. I love this brave story and it makes me sad that such a tender heart can’t look inside to see how amazing he is. I am inspired.

“Hold onto the beauty hardest” That surely is an action plan that leads to a better place. I don’t know how you always manage to reach into a pile of shit and pull out a rose, but you do. I think I’ll have these five words tattooed onto my forehead (at least figuratively!) You are appreciated.

I found this at exactly the right time..that is how I know that I am taken care of and held in the world. This column was worth ten therapy sessions at least. So many good reminders that cut right to the heart of it. so thankful for your words and gift that you share. thank you!

It’s too bad everyone seems to equate “moving past what troubles me” with “forgetting it ever happened” or “erasing it from my past.”

Those attempts at erasure form the reasons people drink, do drugs, etc.

Whatever “it” is, it never goes away. The trick is to remember that it happened and not let the memory kill you.

It’s not about forgetting, Haunted. It’s about letting the memory recede in a healthful way. That takes two things: time, and healing. You’re doing the healing part. The time takes care of itself if you let it.

Both Sugar and you remind me of something so precious about Life: pain is rich and often the best source of our shared humanity. I’m so glad this e-letter and Sugar’s response highlight the complexity that makes us human–the messiness, unexplained and unanswerable mysteries, unexplained and even more mysterious traumas we live with and overcome that resurface when crisis knocks. Both you and Sugar honor the trauma for all its pain but never use it as an excuse to be evil or hurt another or yourselves—which is so much easier. Taking the harder, less traveled path for a greater good one cannot see but only imagines, that’s amazing and rare. Thank you for doing it, Haunted, and thanks Sugar for honoring his journey as you have.

I feel enlightened by the letter from “haunted” and validating response from “sugar”. I lived through a brutal “childhood” that left me twisted and scarred. with no advocate or positive roll models… I found my path to redemption and positive evolution through therapy, antidepressants and AA. People like us have to re-build from the ground up. It is a lifelong process. The scars never go away but they can be woven into the fabric of our being, creating a beautiful, richly patterned, irregularly textured and enduring tapestry. Our history of the ordeals that we live and learn through can become the greatest assets that we bring into our experience with others.

Since this letter was published I left my first post-college job, moved into a new house, started a new job, went through 2 contractors fixing the house, lost a grandparent, moved back into the house, unexpectedly got pregnant, and lost a childhood pet. I need your wise words to help keep me centered through all these changes! Come back!

Really, though, you are a beautiful soul and I am so happy for all of the wonderful things that seem to have happened in your life since “coming out” as Sugar. Hope that everything is continuing to go well and that we will hear from Sugar again someday.

I read about Sugar on the New Yorker website; liked what I read and came on here to read her brilliantly beautiful columns. I have been working my way through all of them and I suspect that we might not see a new one from Sugar. But then, everything has to end one day so thank you very much for everything, the columns and the reader responses. I look forward to reading your novel on Astrology whenever it comes out…

I just found out today that my mother, whom I’ve been taking care of my whole life financially and emotionally has relapsed into her gambling addiction and lost half our savings in the last two days.

I just moved to Seattle last week to start a new job, a new life but it would be temporary and gave her access to my entire bank account so she could take care of herself. It takes courage to walk away from someone you love, but I need to do what’s right for both of us. I cannot continue to enable the gambling and lies. I’ve had to grow up at 16 and put myself through University working full time since I was 19.

Thank you for the words of wisdom and encouragement. Thank you for reminding me gently of how strong I’ve been. It’s often hard to see that through the chaos and lies.

Dear Sugar,
Everyone says, “Life is short. Live every day as if it were your last.” That, dear Sugar will only net you pain in the end. I say live your life for wisdom, so that when you get to my ripe old age, you can look back on a life without regrets.

Dear Sugar,
We’re all thinking it, and something has got to be said! I tell you this not to hurt your feelings, nor under a virtual cover, but through a place of caring and compassion which you did the same for us with such commitment. It has been 8 months since your last post, and it seems to me that you have gone on to bigger-&-better-&-more-famous things. Your writing of this column has brought you much success and a whirlwind of fame in the last-near-year or so. I have bought your collection of Sugar columns, even though they are available for free right here, and I have bought more copies for my friends and family. I tell them about this amazing column, and the woman who wrote it (I previously gave out Wild). The point is, Sweet pea, you are putting us all through a breakup by leaving with no word, and have taken your advice and perspective with you. Granted, it is yours to give, but an explanation is the least you–or any person–can do.

Claire, I sure hope Sugar responds, but as I commented earlier on Oct 17, I suspect that Sugar has moved on and it might very well be difficult for Sugar to re-start posting with the same impact. Or maybe not! But that is a genuine possibility and we will just have to wait and see if Sugar wants to even attempt to re-start posting knowing how much things have changed internally and externally.

It’s all about forgiveness indeed as is already mentioned in the replies. What is forgiveness? You’ve done something very wrong (not talking about Haunted), which costs you something you cannot afford. You feel guilt, and you cannot undo it. The person who got hurt says: “I forgive you, no matter what. Because you admit your mistake, I am happy to forgive you. I now look at you as if your mistake never happened.” To forgive yourself, is to tell that to yourself.
Although we hurt other persons in life, spiritually we are hurting our Creator if we are making mistakes. The biggest mistake is to deny him, but also if we hurt each other, we hurt him. If we admit that to him and ask for forgiveness, he will tell us to forgive us. Although we had to be punished, he gave his son Jesus to pay the price for us, on the cross. If you believe that, there is no more condemnation, you are free from guilt. It will be easy to forgive others and yourself, as you experienced that forgiveness is such a reality that happened to you. You will be free to forgive. So amazing. My own experience.

I’ve been dating my boyfriend for five years. We have lived together for three. We have gone through ups and downs. After five years, I feel like I should ‘know,’ but I don’t… It has become a little hobby (obsession) to know why other people decided to tie the knot. They all say they just, ‘knew.’ I am afraid I may never know with my current boyfriend. Maybe that’s because its not the right fit, but I also fear that I just may never have that full, clear commitment to anyone… There’s a lot more background I could give, but basically my boyfriend wants to know by the summer. He also seems to think if I don’t know, then “we’re done.” I don’t do well with high-pressure situations and him putting this expiration date on me makes it all the more hard. Do you have any advice on how I can figure this out? I feel like I’ve tried everything. I am getting somewhere, but I just want some clarity.

Haunted doesn’t need to live a made up life. Sorry but I disagree. Haunted needs to let himself grieve. Let himself feel the pain of the child and then with his heart he will KNOW that he was not / is not responsible for what happened to him in the years before he grew up – sadly for him that happened fully at 13 years of age. Grieving is something nobody wants to do. Talk about courage – feeling the feelings that are buried is difficult but life giving.

Hi Sugar, and nice commenters. It’s 2013, and I read this 2012 column to my wife after work, today. She said, “I don’t know if you should read that.” Because I had stifled myself from crying during the letter, and then again once or twice more during Sugar’s response, and I told my wife, I send rumpus.net to my “Sweep” folder in my email, so I don’t see it every day. I only go and look at it when I’m in the mood. My wife loved it, by the way, saying “she’s SUCH a good writer”, about Sugar, and of course empathizing with all involved, as did I. Then we talked about her dealing with her father, last weekend. She felt like all the dollars spent in therapy were well-spent, and her years in AA, NA, and Al-Anon probably helped as well. Have we all come full-circle now, all empathizing with one another because all of us have childhoods? Because none of our parents were perfect (–not only not-perfect, but abusive, half-psychotic drug addicts in many cases)? I do not know the answer. We all have to do like Haunted, prayer & meditation, helping others, writing to Sugar, 12-step programs and paid counseling, oh, and I just assume all of the drugs and alcohol and prison sentences that preceded the state-prescribed 12 step treatment programs–that’s just me, to all 12-step members who may happen to be know-it-alls if any of those exist; 50% of the time, my membership was certainly not voluntary. I digressed! We all have to do all that Haunted does, in order to lead a stable life where we love and cherish all the beauty, and beautiful things like children, flowers, & puppy dogs, in our lives. And I’m like the guy in the Sufi story who lost his keys in the house, but I’m looking for them under the street lamp because there’s more light out here!
You all are awesome. I know that. I want you to know I just got back–my wife and I went for a walk after that incident I told you about when I read her this column. On the walk, I really want to share this with all of you! On the walk, I saw a child flying a kite. I saw a flower that was white daisy with yellow center, and other flowers that were purple, blue, red, yellow, and pink. I saw several cats, several dogs (I love those). I saw the ocean waves and sunlight. May I never, never complain or feel sad again. Someone who was allowed to see all of these beautiful things, and was allowed to hold his wife’s hand and kiss her knuckles once or twice during the walk, this person had more riches than all the kings of yore, more magic than Merlin and the Little Mermaid all rolled into one. I cannot help but be overjoyed.

Such bravery you have modelled in your life “haunted”…..being able to share your journey with others on this site is a huge step….continue writing “haunted”…..write it all out of you whenever those moments arise that disturb your inner calm….regardless of how you still feel insecure and shy look at how much your mental/emotional/spiritual health has improved during the past 3 years…..just “keep on” …..I’m sure you would have a lot to give to those who have suffered the same wounds…volunteer organizations that support people who have suffered as you have would gain so much by your light….reaching out and supporting others is another tool you might consider using at some stage for further healing. Kudos to you for the ocean you crossed to reach this place of understanding!

Sugar, thank you for your warm and wise advice. I lived through epic fights between my parents – alcoholic father and domineering mother – who wanted a son and got a daughter. As a result, I often feel depressed. My therapist says to write or paint to get the feelings out. So, while depressed last December, I wrote a poem: “Wave of Depression.” My dark mood disappeared and I had a wonderful, briny new poem in its place. Creative writing and painting help ease my depression. A creative outlet may help others who feel lost on an island of sadness.

Your popcorn story is so poignant… two people trying so hard and failing. As a young child my mother was overwhelmed with caring for her children, an absent husband (army) a different culture (she was an immigrant). At one time she had three children under five, a broken leg and one child in the hospital. She did not cope well. She would swear a blue streak, pick favorite children, mentally torment people who disagreed with her. I learned to agree. My brothers did not. Years later she told me she felt so lost and alone that she would have left my dad if she could. Now, looking back at it, I realize that as a child I was carrying the responsibility to be the man of the house – to comfort a crying mother, to give her advice on raising her other children, to be company when she was lonely. Problem was I did not know enough about life to be able to give good advice, and later realized I took on responsibility for many things that were not my fault and not under my control. Even when I did as you did – ask for more when more was not a good thing it was a childish passion. I loved candy, my mom gave it to me, it rotted my teeth. Knowing when to stop is what parents are supposed to help their children with. I still live with guilt, not about rotting my teeth but all the ways I feel I let my mom down. That said, I still truly enjoyed my relationship with my mom. It is just that now I realize she was also a child, needing comfort and direction and unable to be the parent I needed. That is all. She actually is a marvelous person that grew up without a dad and in a war… . Perhaps we all can forgive her shortcomings. Maybe I will also be able to forgive my own one day.

Don’t know how you, or Haunted, might feel about behavioral therapy: when I was seriously depressed, I thought it was a cruelly stupid idea (you’re telling me I can just feel better if I want to?!). Having passed through that stage, I’ve found David Burns’ book *Feeling Good* (if that’s the exactly right title) helpful. At some point, after therapy to drain longstanding infections, you might be able to decide to do and think the things that make you feel good and normal and allow you to feel happy in the sometimes way that people can. As you say, Haunted is on the path, with AA, Al-Anon, and meditation, which can teach you to be mindful of your thoughts and feelings. Added to mindfulness, a habit of emotional self- care, of recognizing your feel-bad triggers, and refusing them can take you farther. Last time I looked, this book cost $7.

To Haunted: Something my first therapist (a very long time ago) said, as she said good-bye during one of our last sessions, when it was apparent to both of us that I no longer needed to continue seeing her: “Stress means regress.” And yes, THOSE are the times when I might regress, feel the old issues coming back — and if I worry that I’ve regressed FOREVER, that my therapy and my efforts (and my writing) were all in vain, I remember her words. When the stress (usually a SHORT stress, like an erroneous bill for a lot of money, more a worry than a stress…) comes on, I realize that the regression is only temporary (and a lot less than it was originally), and will pass once the “stress” has passed. So, Haunted, what I’m saying is that those times when you feel as though you’re back to the hard times, what you’re feeling might be some slight stress, or worry, that “brings you back”.

Also, Haunted, you were in a toxic situation (as I was during the 26 years I was a well spouse, meaning the spouse of someone chronically ill, in this case multiple sclerosis; anyway, you were in a toxic situation), which you had no choice but to escape from — and which you had every right, indeed obligation, to escape from, and which you wisely did.

— Marion (author of Dirty Details: The Days and Nights of a Well Spouse, and its sequel, Still the End: Memoir of a Nursing Home Wife).

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